Freedom: Dream Messiah, #1

By Randy L Scott

Jake Barnes longs for the freedom he can only find in Alaska. But his independence shatters with an unplanned pregnancy and strange dreams of a tribal messiah half a world away.

 

Torn between the mother of his unborn child and visions that haunt his psyche, the line dividing dreams and reality blur. Jake is pushed deeper into the dream world where he can fulfill a prophecy - or lose his soul. He must find the truth about who he really is; Savior or pawn? He has no idea what he's in for!

 

More than one person wants Jake Barnes to burn in Hell. Another hand is guiding him to a baptism by fire. If you want dark psychological adventure, get Freedom today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randy L Scott
• Release date: Oct 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386255826

Randy L Scott

I was born under the sign of Trouble Ahead with Eddie Haskell rising and itchy feet in alignment with a short attention span. I was one of those kids, curious, defiant and too smart for my britches. Long after I was put to bed, I was under the covers with a flashlight reading Boy’s Life magazine, the official rag of the Boy Scouts. I was fascinated with camping, backpacking and woodsmanship. I became a Scout at twelve years old and fell in love with the outdoor experience. Library was my favorite class in early grade school. Our teacher read to us such classics as: Swiss Family Robinson, Treasure Island, Robinson Carouse, Five on a Treasure Island, and The Mad Scientist Club. Soon I was reading PT-109, Sea Wolf, Call of the Wild, and Last of the Mohicans.   In my teens and early twenties, I followed authors Carlos Castaneda, Hermann Hesse, Kurt Vonnegut, Saul Bellow, Tom Robbins, Frank Herbert, Ray Bradbury and secretly; Robert E Howard of the Conan the Barbarian series of adventures. It always amazed me how fiction authors create places, characters, whole lives and stories, and I wanted to do that too. I dreamed of writing tales that were engaging, flowing and fulfilling - but didn’t know what the heck to write about until this story popped into my head and said hello. This series is by no means autobiographical, but many of the scenes are based on adventures and experiences I’ve had building cabins, commercial fishing and avoiding bears. I spent the better part of sixteen years of my adult life in Alaska before bouncing between Hawaii and Arizona and settling in California.   The genesis for this saga came while hiking across the Superstition Mountains of Arizona. I took a break from the one hundred and ten-degree heat and lay in the shade of a cactus, watching the clouds hang in the sky and daydreaming. In my head I saw the story of a young man in Alaska getting taken into the Dreamtime of another culture and finding his home. It’s taken many years to chisel away and expose the story, hone the details and polish it into something presentable. Thank God for editors! Find out more about me, my stories, what’s coming up, and get missing chapters from this series on my author website: www.randco.me  

Book preview

Arrival

Jake Barnes didn’t often wear a gun, but he would be now. He was fully aware of the hand cannon’s weight hanging beneath his raincoat. The long barrel on his 44 Magnum revolver made for a difficult fast draw, should he need it. He also had his 12-gauge persuader–a short-barrel stainless steel pump shotgun, and his .30-06 rifle. The rifle packed one helluva wallop but was not well-suited for use in the heavy brush and thick forest. The shotgun was better for close range defense, shooting from the hip, and it could handle the rain.

It rained here a lot. In this part of the country, his firearms and raingear would be his constant companions. Defending himself wasn’t a game. He knew a confrontation could come at any time, and there was no secure place here to barricade himself, until he built it. That was his job.

---

When Jake left home right out of high school, it wasn’t to ‘find himself.’ He had a plan. And it didn't include working in a factory like the rest of his family. He wanted to get as far away from his venomous hometown as possible. He had a dream, of life as a mountain man in a remote cabin, hunting, fishing and growing his own food.

Until his last year in high school Jake thought Colorado would be the place to settle. Then John Denver came along singing about his Rocky Mountain High, and it seemed like every back-to-the-land hippie was moving to the state of mountains and tall pines.

So straight after twelfth-grade graduation, with not much more than a dream in his pocket, Jake hitchhiked nearly four thousand miles from the dinge and wreckage of the Motor City to America’s last frontier, Alaska.

Alaska, he came to find out, is the land of misfits. It’s full of characters, eccentrics or just plain wackos some might say, and every one of them has a story, which may very well change with every tellin. Very few of Alaska’s inhabitants were actually born there. Most everyone, like Jake, was from somewhere else. Eccentrics and oddballs are drawn to the mindset of Alaska like salmon returning to their birth-stream. There’s no scientific explanation for these mysterious forces in the universe. Why do salmon return to the stream where they were hatched? Why are the misfits drawn to Alaska, home of the free and other endangered species?

What Jake did know was that he wasn’t going to take shit or abuse ever again from authorities or perverts. No way was he going to live in that kind of fear. But this here was a different kind of fear.

Jake did his best to suppress and hide those feelings from the past but hadn’t been able to shake the shame. Growing up, most of his buddies thought their fathers were assholes; he wasn’t different in that sense. He didn’t expound on it, but he didn’t keep it a secret from Kat. But the other deal–Jake spent years dreaming of revenge. His version of justice wasn’t something he would share with anyone.

Once Jake made it to the land of the midnight sun, finding employment was never a problem. He worked hard and learned fast.

Over the eight years since he’d made Alaska his home, he’d learned mechanics, carpentry, plumbing and basic electrical work, mountaineering and winter survival along with boat handling and most of the skills needed to fulfill his aspiration. He wanted to survive when all the rest of the world went to shit. He felt like it was well under way.

That’s one thing he could agree on with his father, the world was going to hell in a hand basket. For Dad, it was all about the Book of Revelations and the second coming of Christ. For Jake, it was about politics run amuck, pollution, corporate greed and corruption. The perversion of religion angered Jake to no end.

Jake hadn’t seen the inside of a church since his parents stopped forcing him to attend when he turned fifteen. So it was a surprise when the family’s minister showed up at the front door one evening shortly after Jake announced he was leaving for Alaska to fend for himself.

He sat fidgeting at the kitchen table with the minister across from him when his parents got up and left the house so the two of them could talk in private.

The preacher tried to convince Jake that he was throwing his life away by not going to college and not taking Jesus as his personal savior. You’re a smart kid, Jacob, I know you don’t want a factory job. I don’t blame you. I know your family can’t afford to send you to a big university, but we might be able to help with a partial scholarship to the Holy Redeemer Christian College. I believe it will straighten you out from all these crazy ideas you have.

Jake tensed the muscles in his thighs and crossed his arms. He was ready to tell the preacher to eff-off.

You can’t outrun the devil, Jacob, the preacher continued his sermon. I know all about your family’s history. I know their delusions and the treatments they had to endure. I know you better than you know yourself.

Jake clenched his fists. You obviously didn’t care about me before and you don’t know anything about me now.

Pastor Walker laughed. You’re an open book! You’ve got a messiah complex, Jacob. And I’m here to tell you that you can’t save the world, or even your own soul–only Jesus can do that. Pray with me now; take Jesus into your heart and let him take those burdens.

Last time I prayed, Jake cut him off, things only got worse. I don’t need your church, and I don’t need you telling me what to do. Some help you’ve been. The one time I came to you–

Look, if this is about–

Save your breath and look at your own soul, you freakin’ hypocrite. You’re the last person I want advice from. I can quote the Bible too. Jesus warned about false prophets claiming–

I never claimed to be a prophet.

Jesus also warned about the Antichrist, a liar and deceiver in sheep’s clothing. You straight-faced lied to me, then told my parents that–

Now hold on. I did what was best for you, but I see you’re still nothing more than a rude, smart-ass little teenager who thinks he knows everything. Maybe you do belong in Alaska or a California commune with the rest of the godless hippies. I’m trying to help you see the error of your ways before you end up in a mental hospital.

Jake’s chair fell over as he sprang up. He squared his jaw and drew back his fist. There was murder in his eyes. You’d better get the hell out of here before I send you to a hospital myself.

Pastor Walker slowly stood up and took a step back. Tough little eighteen-year-old, he sneered. You think you can take me on? I may be a man of God, but I can whip a punk like you.

Good! Then let’s step outside and I’ll show you what I can do. You’re no man of God. You’re nothing more than a piece of shit, like Vince. I’ll take that cocksucker down if I ever see him again, and I’ll take you down right here and now! Come on, you chicken-shit pussy.

The preacher put his hands up. No. I won’t play your game. I’d only get blamed for assaulting a minor. It’s obvious your father didn’t beat enough sense into you early on. I’ll still pray for you, Jacob Barnes.

He beat me enough to know I can take anything you can dish out, and you’ll reap what you’ve sown ten times over, cocksucker! And eighteen is not a minor anymore. So you and me, man to man. No excuses, you two-faced, lying son of a bitch! You want to pray? You better pray I don’t leave your brains all over the sidewalk.

The preacher kept his hands up as he backed himself to the door. I rebuke the demon inside you, he shouted as he stepped outside. May God have mercy on your corrupted soul.

Jake stood watching through the open front door as the preacher got into his car. He didn’t feel the blood dripping from his knuckles after his fist pounded the kitchen table. As the preacher began driving away from the curb, Jake grabbed the bottle of milk from the counter, ran through the front door to chase the preacher’s car, and heaved the bottle at it. It fell far short, but the sound of shattering glass and the explosion of milk covering the street made him feel better.

The neighbors were not surprised.

---

Jake kept those memories to himself. There was still a big part of him that was proud of how he acted back then. There was still a part of him scared of what he could do when pushed. He knew better than to share that with anyone.

Jake found that he fit in with the rest of the Alaskan misfits pretty well. What he still hadn’t accomplished was to save enough money to buy his dream. He’d come to realize dreams aren’t free–or cheap.

His buddy Kevin was a real estate wheeler and dealer who also wanted a homestead on his own piece of wilderness–but strictly for vacations. Kevin found the ideal spot in this little cove on Kachemak Bay. It was far enough from civilization to keep him isolated, and yet close enough to not be a nightmare for getting supplies. Best of all, there was only one other cabin in the cove.

Kevin had the money, but not the time or skills to construct a homestead. They struck a deal that Jake would build it for him.

---

So here he was, twenty-six years old, finally fulfilling his vision and scared shitless. The tent, his new home for now, was nestled in the tall trees above the rocky point leading down to the water’s edge, and only a short distance to the brink of the cliffs that bordered this side of the cove.

The surrounding mountains peaks were obscured as the ceiling of rain-soaked clouds dropped ever lower. Wispy fragments of the shredded overcast sky filtered down through the wide branches of towering Alaskan Spruce closing in around him. Some of these trees were nearly two hundred years old, and some of them wouldn’t be getting any older by the time Jake was through.

The ocean was muddy-gray in the distance, blending into shades of green and turquoise close to the shore. It was calm and flat as a farm pond, the surface only dimpled by the light rainfall. The droning outboard of Kevin’s boat was barely audible as it faded away into the veil of drizzle and fog.

Kevin had only stayed long enough to help erect the tent and haul up supplies from the boat before he turned tail and headed back to town. His two-seater Piper Super Cub was at the small airfield in Homer. Kevin would fly the plane home to his chalet in Greenwood. His wife, Judy, would have a hot dinner and cold drink waiting.

---

Jake pulled his hat down tight over his long hair, turned and stumbled through the stiff underbrush up to the tent. He stepped under the tent awning and rolled a cigarette. He rationalized that his loose tobacco in a pouch was healthier, and cheaper, than store-bought factory loads. He also rationalized that the smoke kept the mosquitoes and voracious black flies away from his face and out of his beard. He was good at rationalizing–if not always accurate. Smoking, a little toking and a little drinking were his only bad habits. Or so he figured.

Exhaling a heavy sigh, he cupped the fag inside his hand to protect it from the rain, thinking about what he’d gotten himself into with this deal.

Kat was an unplanned part of his dream. On one hand, he did want to share his homestead aspiration with the right woman. On the other hand, he’d been enjoying the freedoms and irresponsibility of bachelorhood until recently.

He met Kat on the ski slopes above Greenwood, the town he called home. He thought she was just another ski-bunny to chase and another notch to mark on his belt, but after a few dates together, he found himself more than a bit infatuated. Kat was a girl with brains and ambitions. She was teaching aerobics at a health club in Anchorage while taking her science pre-reqs at the community college.

Shortly after he met this new love of his life Jake began to seriously reconsider his plans of a permanent move out into the wilderness. After only six months of dating, they moved in together, still learning about each other as they went along.

When Kevin approached Jake with his offer to build the homestead, Kat fully supported the plan. She wanted Jake to finish sowing any wild oats and ready to settle in serious with her. She could put up with his bad habits, but his days of running off to go hunting or fishing with his buddies at the drop of a hat would be over.

---

He finished his smoke while watching the incoming tide flood the small beach between the cliffs. These were some of the highest tides in the world; he didn’t want to be caught down there when the surge rolled in. In only a few hours, the water would cover the beach and be ten feet up the slick rock walls.

Staring off into the distance he reviewed his mental list of the work for tomorrow:

Clear out the brush and undergrowth around the tent. (I need to see anyone or thing, approaching).

Make a fire pit (Everything’s going to mildew in all this dampness).

Build a bear-proof container for the food.

---

He felt a nervous shiver knowing he’d never hear a predator approaching in the battering rain. The freakin’ bears!

His biggest fear was surviving an attack but ending up maimed and scarred for life. He’d heard too many stories to underestimate the horror of an Alaskan grizzly, or brown bear attack.

They’d seen three brownies in the meadow above the homestead property when they flew Kevin’s Super Cub over to check out the area. Jake craned his neck against the cold window to watch the mother and her cubs run up the mountainside, busting through brush and jumping creeks at a speed that was astounding. Jake knew it would take him an hour to traverse the same ground that the bears had just covered in a few short minutes.

---

New project: Blaze a trail over to the long beach on the west side of the cove. Clear out the boulders and set up a windsock. Kevin needs to land the plane on this side of the bay.

Once Kevin could fly in and out from the beach, Jake would keep the boat here at the homestead. Until then, he was stranded–and the bears kept circling his thoughts.

Right on cue, branches rustled behind him. He tried to spin around, but his bulky rubber boots tripped him up. In clumsy fear, he fumbled for the big gun under his jacket. His heart pounded as he tried to steady the heavy barrel and draw a bead on the movement. His ears rang as the .44 Magnum blew splinters out of a tree fifty feet away. A furious squirrel ran up the tree and chattered back in anger. Jake clenched his jaw and squinted as he tried to steady the bead for another shot. He was not bolstered with confidence, but he was glad that it was only a squirrel that startled him. I hope to hell I’m carrying the shotgun if the time comes.

---

It was just as exciting as it was a pain in the ass to wear the heavy hand-cannon. It’s a guy thing, he’d explained to Kat. "You feel different with a sidearm strapped on, or a rifle over your shoulder. More secure. But, he conceded, also like you’re looking for trouble."

Jake felt the same way about Kat; she offered security and excitement, but she could be a pain in the ass when she got hard-headed. And her aim was spot-on deadly when she shot her irate eyes at anyone who pissed her off.

But, she was worth it–he hoped. Especially since only a week before he came down here for the summer, he’d suggested they get married. He thought she would have, should have, known better, considering he was half-drunk at the time. His reputation for not getting nailed down by any woman–so far–had preceded him. But to his surprise, she said yes.

Engaged. It still sounded strange. They hadn’t set a date yet. Jake hadn’t told his family down in the ‘Lower 48,’ the Alaskan’s reference to the rest of the country. He figured he’d wait till they finalized all the details. Maybe he’d even wait till they were already married before he announced it to his own family.

Kat reasoned that that would be awkward. Jake argued that there wasn’t a lot of love lost in his family. There was only one nephew he had any interest in. He barely mentioned the relatives who were fully diagnosed, bona fide crazy. Or worse, the ones who weren’t diagnosed, but he knew had their demons.

Though he was looking forward to spending the rest of his life with Kat, Jake knew this would be his last summer of freedom to chase his dream. And now he was finally doing it.

---

The air smelled of spruce and hemlock, moss, saltwater and muck. Jake kicked the dirt clods off his boots and stepped inside the tent. It was an old, soiled, musty and moldy, mustard-yellow canvas affair held up by bent and dented aluminum poles that framed the outside like an umbrella. It had seen better days. A more merciful man would have retired it years ago, but for now it was home.

It was early May and dark wouldn’t formally arrive for hours in these northern latitudes, but the thick cloud cover dimmed the forest understory. And the tent, after many years’ worth of accumulated grunge, made it even darker inside.

He switched on the small battery-powered radio and tuned in to the only station, KHOM, from Homer. It was Blues Hour and they were spinning this new guy from Texas, Stevie Ray Vaughn.

Homer was only seven miles across the bay, but it may as well have been a hundred. Without a sturdy boat and dependable engine to cross the rough waters, Jake felt as isolated as the lepers banished to Molokai. There were no roads to this side of the bay and no safe spots to anchor a boat close to shore, until he set up a running line between deep water and the rocky point. There was nothing here to attract tourists or even those few locals who lived along this side of the bay. It was a solitary piece of rugged property surrounded by state and federal land. That’s why Kevin was so attracted to it; no one would show up to bother him. No one would be moving in next door.

---

The Blues Hour was over. Dang it, he cursed to himself for forgetting to bring the mix tape Kat had made him. He would much rather be listening to Pink Floyd and the Moody Blues than the old-timey hillbilly music coming up next. At least they’re not playing that disco shit!

He lit the gas lantern before unrolling his foam pad and sleeping bag on the tent floor. The hissing lantern threw off enough heat to warm the tent so Jake could take off his jacket and rain pants. Checking the safety on the shotgun, he carefully laid it down next to his bed. The .30-06 leaned against the card table. Though he didn’t want to admit that he was more than a touch unnerved, he also didn’t want to be more than a step away from a weapon.

He cracked a cold beer, seated himself in the rickety camp chair, pulled out his stash tin and packed a small pipe with Matanuska Thunderfuck, Alaska’s own homegrown strain of weed. He wouldn’t take more than a couple hits, just enough to take the edge off and relax a little. Any more than that, and he knew his bear paranoia would be overwhelming.

Both the folding chair and card table sat crooked and unsteady. Preparation of the ground beneath the tent floor was a hasty hack job to say the least. Trying to sit in the tottering chair was an active endeavor. He set the legal pad and pencil in front of him on the table, opened a box of crackers and began to write down all the little chores to engage his coming days before he could actually start building the cabin.

He drifted off into little stoned daydreams, thinking about Kat and his future, forgetting about time as he listened to the radio. His foot began tapping to the goofy swing sound of the Jug Band’s, Way Down in Borneo.

God, if that shit don’t keep the bears away, I don’t know what will!

He smiled, remembering the crazy image of the ‘Wild Man of Borneo’ from an old Little Rascals episode he’d watched on Saturday morning TV. His mother used to threaten Jake that she’d sell him to the ‘Wild Man,’ and his cousin, the ‘Boogeyman’ if he didn’t behave.

And Jake had misbehaved much of his young life–even before the episodes with Vince and Pastor Walker. Not that he was a criminal or a bad person, but he was a non-conformist. He was more than a tad of a rebel who loved to question authority. They were the perfect credentials for fitting into the Alaskan personality-scape.

---

Music hour was over and the broadcast returned to the national news–more crazy shit, as always.

He reached over and turned off the radio. Rain droned lightly on the tent top. No need to hear what was going on out in that ‘civilized’ world out there. His only worries now were: bears, drowning, breaking a leg, eating bad mayonnaise or drinking contaminated water, accidentally shooting himself, cutting off a finger or severing an artery with the ax or chainsaw.

Yeah, that’s comforting, he told himself.

Undressing down to his long johns, he turned out the lantern and crawled into his sleeping bag. The light slowly receded as the darkness chased it from the mildewed corners of the old tent.

In the space now left by the quiet radio, he could hear the rustling of every leaf outside. He felt for the shotgun one more time, fingered the safety off and wondered if he’d ever get to sleep. He hoped to have interesting dreams, flying dreams, or erotic dreams–not interrupted by bears, the Wild Man of Borneo or his cousin the Boogeyman.

The Neighbors

Silence, or so it seemed. It was still dark in the tent, cozy in the sleeping bag and cold against his cheeks. The musty smell reminded him of where he was–not at home waking up wrapped around Kat. A wisp of gray light crept in around the edge of the tent flap. The faint echo of ocean wavelets lapping on the stony beach below seeped in with the light. He heard the chirping of morning birds and tried to breathe softly, listening between the sounds as he felt for the pistol next to his pillow. The scratching of a squirrel running up a tree suddenly seemed deafening. No bear sounds. No Boogeyman sneaking around. He breathed a sigh of relief and wondered if he was going to wake up this paranoid every morning.

It took another five minutes to work up the courage to leave the warmth of his sleeping bag and stick his head out the tent door to inspect the morning. The clouds were still low, but at least it wasn’t raining. He lit the camp stove and dumped a few heaping spoonfuls of coffee grounds into the pot. No filters, no percolator basket–he made it simple cowboy style with just a pinch of salt.

Jake stepped out into the dim morning and ambled to the edge of the rock outcrop to take a badly needed leak. He gazed down across the gravel beach now exposed by the low tide. The shoreline curved like a quarter moon, to a point about a mile across the water from him. Perched on that rocky point was the neighbor’s homestead they’d flown over two days before. There was an old cabin, three outbuildings, a couple of modest gardens and a small boat dock that seemed to grow right out of the scraggy landscape. An old shallow-hull wooden skiff tied to a running line floated effortlessly on the calm surface in the protected bight. A thin curl of blue smoke rose from the stack on the cabin roof and assimilated into the clouds without a trace. These would be his only neighbors and he wondered who they were.

Then he spotted another resident of the cove. He expected to catch sight of sea otters–they were abundant around the coast. He was surprised to spot a river otter staring back at him from a dozen yards offshore. Another head rose above the surface to join the first. Both otters now held their place in the water, watching Jake.

The aroma of fresh coffee summoned him back to the tent. He poured a cup, rolled a smoke, stepped back to the cliff’s edge with binoculars and focused on the homestead. No lights shone from the windows of the weathered clapboard cabin. Only the smoldering stovepipe divulged that there might be someone around. On the other end of the roof was a pair of tall whip antennas, which he surmised were for marine band and CB radios.

Jake looked again to the receding tide line. There was now a clear passage of beach all the way around to the homestead. He flipped through the tide book that he kept in his pocket. The tide chart was the bible that everyone along the bay lived by. Any boat travel, and most of life along the coast, was dictated by the tide and wind changes. They were two forces you couldn’t fight or fudge with; you could only do your best to prepare. He checked his watch and calculated how long the beach passage would be exposed. Screw the chores, Jake rationalized, this is time to go adventuring.

Gulping the last of his coffee, Jake snuffed out his cigarette, pulled on his hip boots, strapped the big revolver to his belt, grabbed the shotgun and retrieved a stout rope from the tool chest. After securing one end to a thick spruce tree, he threw the line over the cliff, slipped the shotgun strap over his head, put on leather gloves and took a deep breath. Gripping the rope, he leaned back and slowly lowered himself down the rocks between the bushes and trees.

The gravel at the bottom crunched under his boots. Seaweed and muck near the water’s edge filled the air with a thick, pungent, rotting odor. A bit of a stink, his city friends would say.

Long drawn-out ripples of waves rolled onto the beach. Pieces of trash had washed ashore with the tide: bits of rope, an old tennis shoe and dead containers that had once held milk, soda, lunch meats and fishing lures.

He shook his head in disgust as he stepped over a pile of debris. Even in the wilderness you can’t get away from the trash. A creek draining the meadow ponds up the mountainside threw itself onto the beach in a splashing ten-foot leap that drowned out all other sounds. Jake touched the stock of his shotgun for reassurance as he carefully scanned the forest around the beach for any sign of bears.

He thought this was going to be a quick hike, but the pea gravel and muck slowed him down considerably. Glancing at his wristwatch, he recalculated how long it should take to hike over to the homestead and when to start back. He did not want to be caught or stranded by the flooding tide.

Forty-five minutes later, nearly twice as long as he had estimated, Jake was scrambling up the dirt bank at the edge of the homestead. He stopped to catch his breath and cool down for a minute before waltzing into the thick of the grange.

A flower garden in front of him was already showing color. Flowers meant there was probably a woman here. Freshly turned soil beds, fenced in by chicken wire were ready for planting vegetables. Two large glass-covered cold frames provided warmth for the young starts. Raspberry canes, a strawberry patch and blueberry bushes climbed the slopes beyond the gardens. The ends of large log rounds and old railroad ties formed steps up the hill.

He noted the two small sheds and a sizable workshop. This was exactly the type of place he’d dreamed of building for himself. There’s a lot of frickin’ work here, he mused. How many years did it take to get the homestead in this shape?

He called out loud a few times. Yo! Anybody home?

He felt his stomach churning as he cautiously approached the cabin, hoping someone would answer his calls but not with a barrage of gunfire as some of these recluse homesteaders were known to do.

The weatherworn door of the cottage swung open to reveal a short, stout sourdough figure who looked every bit as seasoned, tough and firm as the door. A warm, toothy smile brightened the old man’s face.

Old maybe, but not feeble, weak or worn out by any means. The beat-up, red cowboy hat perched on his head reminded Jake of the same hat he’d worn as a kid while watching Roy Rogers on the old black-and-white TV on Saturday mornings. Whoa Nelly!

Mornin’. The old man drawled. We’re surprised to see ya here so soon. Weren’t expecting anyone for at least a couple of days. Nonetheless, welcome to Halibut Head. Come on in. He motioned with a nod of his head. I’m Dave Reagan.

Mornin’. I’m Jake. Sorry to surprise you. Jake pointed up to the rooftop antennas. I don’t have a radio, yet, he apologized. I can come back later, if this isn’t a good time.

No, it’s fine. Dave extended a powerful hand for a shake. We just put on a fresh pot of coffee.

Jake stepped forward to meet the robust grip, wondering how old Dave was. Jeeze, those forearms are like Popeye’s. He’s built like a friggin’ tank. Probably an old wrestler, or a bouncer.

Although Dave’s face and hands were rough and weathered, he didn’t move at all like an old man. Beneath the natty sweatpants, Jake could tell that Dave’s legs were thick and still strong. The dingy t-shirt beneath his flannel vest was tight enough to show he wasn’t carrying any extra fat, and he could probably bench press a moose. This guy could be anywhere between sixty or seventy years old.

A blast of warmth with the acrid smell of burning coal from the Yukon stove hit Jake as he stepped into the cabin. The place was only a skosh larger than a trapper’s shack and perfectly positioned on the rock outcropping for a commanding view of the bay and the landscape around it. Bright light streamed in from the windows overlooking the mouth of the cove, the waters of Kachemak Bay, the distant shoreline across the bay around Homer and the snow-covered volcanic peaks far across the Kenai Peninsula and Cook Inlet.

Half of the cabin was the kitchen, which was occupied by a white porcelain and stainless steel, flattop cook stove. Leaning back against the stove was a compact, sturdy woman with a broad smile lighting her friendly face. She looked to be somewhere in her late forties, but like Dave, that number of years could have a wide variation. She wore her plaid flannel shirt and old construction pants as well as any lumberjack or roughneck in this country. The colorful kerchief around her Dorothy Hamill hair was just that little bit of femininity to let you know she was still a woman despite her work clothes.

Wow! Jake exhaled.

Well, hi there, Jake, she greeted him. I’m Ann. Coffee for you?

Pleased to meet you, Ann He bowed. Yes, I’d love a cup, black, please.

So, asked Dave, you camping down here for a while? Looks like you brought a lot of supplies over yesterday. Gonna be over there by yourself?

My buddy, Kevin Topher, bought the property last month, Jake answered. He hired me to build him a place. So it looks like I’m here for the summer, at least.

Have a seat, Ann pointed to an old wingback chair in the corner beneath a window. She set the cup of hot coffee on the little table next to him.

Jake unzipped his jacket, turned his hip waders down to his knees and sunk into the worn armchair. Like the tent he was calling home, the lounge was tattered, frayed and faded, but unlike his tent, it was downright comfy.

Jake quickly scanned the rest of the cabin. Shelves of books and old magazines lined the walls. Photos and postcards from around the world, most of them faded and tattered, were tacked to the low rafters. A variety of firearms hung wherever there was space on the walls. And that left pretty much no clear space.

A ladder leaned into a narrow opening in the ceiling up to the small sleeping loft. Leaned against the doorframe was a double-barrel 10-gauge shotgun that would put a hole in a man large enough to ride a mule through.

Jake nodded his head toward the heavy weapon. You get many bears coming through here?

Naw, Dave answered. That’s for trespassers.

Jake smiled at the joke, but Dave cut him short. "’If the thief is found breaking in, and he is struck so that he dies, there shall be no guilt for his bloodshed.’ That’s Exodus 22:2. Nehemiah 4:14 states, ‘Fight for your brothers, your sons, your daughters, your wives and your houses.’ Even Jesus tells us in Luke 11:21 ‘When a strong man, fully armed, guards his own homestead, his possessions are undisturbed.’"

Oh shit. Jake’s shoulders stiffened with the revelation that his neighbors were Bible-quoting zealots.

I’ve read the Holy Word cover to cover numerous times, Dave boasted. And because of that, I would never call myself a religious man. He smiled a mischievous grin. But it sure provides us with the teachings and justification to get away with almost anything. Those stories are twisted through time to validate a culture’s laws and morals, Dave added. Not to say the lessons aren’t valid–there’s still a lot of good stuff in there.

Whew, Jake sighed. Had me going there.

Make no mistake, young man. Dave was serious again. I’ve killed men before. I didn’t particularly enjoy it, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat if our lives were threatened. His smile returned and threw Jake into total confusion.

Kevin must be the one with the red and white Super Cub we’ve seen flying over, Ann interrupted and continued the conversation.

Yeah, Jake agreed. I need to put up a windsock and clear off the big rocks and boulders on the west beach. Jake pointed out the window to a wide strand of gravel on the far side of his little camp.

When he can land the plane over there, he’ll leave me the boat. Meanwhile, it’s going to take some time just to set up a decent camp and make some trails for getting around. Your place here is a great inspiration. How long have you two been living in this corner of the bay?

I moved over here about twenty-five years ago, Dave answered. "Ann joined me a few years later. Homer was getting to be too big a town for me, even back then. Folks were gettin’ to be too much like city people. Too many neighbors, too much government and asinine laws, too much crime, and way too much bullshit."

That’s right, added Ann. Once there got to be nearly a thousand people living around town, it just got too crazy and hectic. Might as well be in Anchorage, or Juneau with the rest of the kooks! And where are you from, Jake?

Greenwood. Jake took a sip of the strong coffee. For the past seven years. Only a couple hundred people there most of the summer. Swells up during ski season with weekenders from Anchorage. I like it, but would really love to be in a place like this. Just can’t afford it on my own yet.

Dave stared out the window to Kevin’s property before answering. Well, don’t expect to get much done in only one summer. Ya know there ain’t no stores over here, and you don’t want to spend twenty dollars’ worth of gas to go over and get a fifty-cent part when something breaks down. I’ve been workin’ on this place nearly thirty years, and there’s never an end to the chores or expenses.

Ann nodded her head. "Every time you bring that boat over from Homer, better make darn sure it’s as full as you can safely pack it. When the weather gets rough, you can be stuck over here for weeks on end. However, stuck or not, we do take time every day to give thanks and enjoy it all."

If you find yourself in trouble or danger, Dave added, "don’t be afraid to ask for help. Until you get your radio, you can also S.O.S. to us with your flashlight, or repeat three gunshots. We’ll do our best to come running.

Yeah, you’ll make mistakes, Dave laughed. Everyone does. You’ll probably lose a boat or two. Everyone does. Right, Ann?

She nodded vigorously.

Be prepared for goin’ in the water. Everyone does. Make sure you’ve always got your life vest handy and your knife sharp. Keep your matches and radio dry, your batteries strong and especially keep your sense of humor when you screw up. Right, Ann?

Again she nodded in agreement. You got that right!

Thanks, Jake replied. If there’s ever anything we can do to give you guys a hand, just ask.

The best advice I can give you right now, Dave smiled, is that you’d better get your rear in gear unless you plan on staying here all day. Tide’s rising–the beach is disappearing fast.

Holy sheep shit! Jake put down his coffee cup and pulled up his hip boots.

Well, come on back soon, Ann implored. We don’t get many visitors. Do you like bear?

From a distance, yeah. But up close I’m scared shitless, to tell you the truth.

Not if you cook it right, Ann laughed as she pushed a fist-sized package wrapped in newspaper into his hand. I just pulled this last piece of black bear roast out of the cold cellar last night. It’s dry so just use lots of oil and make sure to cook it well-done. You don’t want parasites.

Wow. Thanks! Jake took the package and stuffed it in his jacket. Only in Alaska, he thought, would someone give you bear meat as a welcome present.

With a quick and strong shake of their hands, Jake bowed and beamed a large smile. Thanks again. Hasta-la-next-time, guys. We’ll do lunch! He grabbed his shotgun and headed down the trail.

The cool wind in Jake’s face increased his sense of urgency; he could feel the rain coming. He walked quickly for the first ten steps then